The de Blasio Diaries, Chapter 30: Sitting One Out

Back when Chiara was in high school, we were all sitting in the living room on a Saturday night, playing a game of Sorry! (I think I had brewed up a batch of my famous hot chocolate for the occasion), and Dante snapped a photo of Chiara fuming when one of her pieces got sent back to “Start.” I have never seen her face contort the way it did as she grabbed the phone from him. “You can’t post that,” she shrieked. After a five-minute détente, which I, naturally, skillfully orchestrated (key to conflict resolution: nod your head a lot, and promise cookies), Chiara explained what was going on. “I told all my friends I couldn’t go to Kelly’s birthday party tonight because we were on a hiking trip for the weekend. If Dante posted a photo of me, they’d all know I was lying!”

“Why didn’t you just tell Kelly you had plans at home with your family?” I asked.

Chiara rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Dad. You just don’t get it.” She stood up and marched to her room, as Chirlane patted my back and then went after her.

Well, over this past weekend, I texted Chiara, “honey, i finally get how you felt when we played sorry! when you were in high school.” (She wrote back a day later, “???? sorry?? no idea what u r talking about.”)

This past Saturday, I put on my bike shorts and polo shirt (in other words, my weekend uniform) and took a stroll down to the deli. The scent of pastrami really clears my head. On the way back, I pop into Duane Reade, pick up a few things, and decide to splurge on a lollipop. It was a summer Saturday; I had no engagements planned; why not? I’m almost back at Gracie-land (you like that, by the way? I tried it on Dante the other night and he just sort of grunted and shook his head) and I see a teenager snapping a photo of me with his iPhone. Normally, I brush that kind of thing off. (I had Chiara look up a photo posted of me on Instagram once, and only, like, four people had given it that heart sign. Frankly, my biggest takeaway was that I was sad it didn’t get more hearts.) But this time, I had an uneasy feeling about the “paparazzi” shot, and that’s when it struck me: it was the day of Hillary Clinton’s rally, which, obviously, I was not attending.

Just a sidenote here: Since when is it such a terrible thing to hold a goddamn presidential candidate—the front-runner, no less—to an extremely high standard? Since when is it seen as an insult that, just because we’re in the same party, I expect to hear some well-constructed, novel points from her campaign? If you know nothing else about Bill de Blasio, it’s this: when the going gets tough, he doesn’t hold his tongue. (That’s the saying, right?)

But even though I was making a stand, skipping the rally, I couldn’t have the Post running a blurry photo of me in bike shorts sucking on a lollipop like a third grader. (“BILL’S PLAYING HOOKY.”) I ran over to the teenager. “Hey, buddy,” I told him. “Do you mind deleting that?”

“Deleting what?” he said. He held up his phone and showed me a selfie he had taken of himself. Of course, I thought. The teen looked at me again. “Why would I have taken a picture of you?” he asked. “Who even are you?”

I turned around and walked back to the mansion. Who even am I, indeed.